Why Do I Write Now?

I haven't written in a long, long time. Why do I write now? Is it because I have fallen so far that I have resorted to previous haunts to sort myself out somehow? Does my subconscious feel desperate enough to reach out into any foothold it can grab onto be it something outdated and found in the habits of the past?

Why did I not write then? Why did I stop? ... Maybe it was because I was happy. And happiness does not need an outlet. It just leaks out of every single thing you do, like barely contained rays of light. Because happiness is not a lonely thing; it is not confined to the solitary spaces of your mind where they fester and beg for an outlet that is not so personal yet personal enough. Hence, writing.

Why was I reluctant to continue? Why did I associate writing as an act of the fallen? Maybe because I did not like the darker spaces of my mind it brings me to. The sordid, melancholy, convoluted spaces where ideas twist and form into something that looks nice on paper but not in experience.
Maybe because I am disgusted by the habits and the mentality brought on by this activity of writing. Makes us feel like we are smarter. Makes us feel more superior somehow and in that we dwell, whether we know it or not because the expression in written form is a skill that must be good to possess. Makes us overthink things and in doing so, keeps us writing about it, thinking about it, instead of feeling it. Feeling in its purest form, uncontained by mastery of language, no matter how fluent.
Maybe I associate it all with darker days. Days when my written word was my only companion and listening shoulder for I felt like I had no one to talk to and no one to share with. Maybe it reeks of that sense of loneliness I carried around with me like a cloud and I don't want to admit that it's back. The heavy, oppressive disconnection.

Then why do I write now? God knows. Why do I write now? Because I suffer a broken heart which is while insignificant, is significant enough in the history of any man's life.

Why is there even a chance that this time could be different? There is no chance. I highly doubt that it's any different this time,

So why am I cataloguing insanity this time? Because I let one person open the floodgates and open up a very dangerous part of a person. Especially dangerous to one who has stupidly decided to seal theirs for whatever insane, cowardly reason there was. I let it happen and it happened and I changed. I became someone else and while I cannot be sure that someone else is a good someone else, or even an improvement from the previous, the changes happened and I just rolled with it. It was a good place. It was a nice, safe place to be where while one may still have one's problems, it was a good, safe place to try to fix them. In the embrace of a welcoming and understanding influence. Where one feels accepted and loved.
But it ended. And now everything is clattering in there because the one string that held them all together, the new improvements, the one thing that made them made sense and seem worthwhile has been snapped and everything clatters around in the mess. Where do I find what belongs where and how do I put it all back together in a good and coherent manner? Especially when the mess is so large and unprecedented that I trip all over myself trying to sort things out.

So why do I write now? God knows. Maybe I just need a way to help myself.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

I learned today. That love can be difficult.

It is not the ideal that we write, sing and talk about or hear, watch and read about. I don't know if it ever was or if it ever will be.

Not to say that love isn't all those things and more. I'm just focusing on the "and more" part. Because it is not the ideal when we take a closer look at all the "sordid details". That's why they're called sordid details. They just ruin the ideal somewhat.

And love being an abstract concept, cannot logically, be blamed. It's a beautiful thing. It gives joy, meaning and humanity.

But it can't be the ideal. Because we are only human. And misunderstandings happen. Problems happen. Oversight happens. Life happens.

We sail past each other every day like two ships passing in the night, and where things get lost is where the missing pieces of the ideal go. We see what we want to see, what our paranoid minds tell us to see, what our truthful hearts tell us we must see. And in those gaps of understanding, where we misunderstand each other, where the heartache happens and the blame runs either way; where it is so that each story has two sides to it. That is where the ideal fails to materialize. And that is where the missing pieces go.